


the intimacy of falling bodies

by Ghostigos



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, POV Second Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 06:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15018545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: It's all fun and games until a hospital visit has Connor reevaluating his stance on mortality, and of fleeting things.





	the intimacy of falling bodies

**Author's Note:**

> (i did not suffer from love, i suffered with it — _the trick is you were never meant to be let in_ )
> 
> david cage I will fight u behind an alleyway but god thank u so much for letting us have connor and hank,,,,
> 
> this is post-canon; it's not outright spoiler-y, but there are a few nods to certain events that you might wanna watch out for if u haven't played. the self-harm tag just covers some of hank's Issues(TM) (mentioned alcoholism, suicidal ideations, etc.)
> 
> it's up to interpretation of whether connor and hank's relationship is a platonic, queerplatonic, familial, or romantic one here.

The nurse tells you what you already know: a dire wound to the lower right abdomen, striking vital organs in the bullet's path as it crashed into his body and promptly exited. He lost copious amounts of blood at the scene, so they already have him hooked up to one, two...about four machines. You get sympathetic glances from his doctors as they side-eye your red clothing.

You had asked where he was located the moment he came out of surgery, and that's where you are now.

The machinery linked to the lieutenant's body whirr with desperation as they pump life back into him. His blood type — Type O — is currently being desposited back into his system from a bag on the side of his stretcher.

You sit, your hands folded onto your lap. You only know basic education on first aid emergencies, compared to the android medicinal units, so it's hard not to feel useless.

It's funny, you can recall anything but the specific time upon which this happened. It took you an excruciatingly long amount of time to even recollect the date (March 3rd, 2039); not that program faults have been rare as of late — you are a prototype, after all.

Perhaps, you think, that is why you mistook your partner's probability of survival (78%) as a sure sign to continue pursuing the active shooter.

What a fool you were.

Hank awakens on his own terms, hours later — he looks disoriented; the face that was once too loose and serene now twists up at the fluorescent lighting encircling him. The age in his eyes returns gradually, the more he tests his consciousness.

You've been waiting for a while now and have had nothing to do but stare and wait — Hank would have found it creepy, had he been awake. You're about to give him a mandatory welcome (even though you don't feel concocting one, personally), but your voice halts when he grunts in pain.

"Sonuva..." Hank makes a move to adjust, his teeth scrunched together because, unlike yourself, he can experience pain, rather than a blind pressure in the location of the wound. His movements are wooden as he seats himself upwards.

"I advise you to be careful moving around too much, Lieutenant," you say diplomatically — there's a holdup in your tonality, a choke, almost. You don't know why. "The bullet did a massive amount of damage to your abdomen and kidneys. It may be dangerous for you to move around so quickly."

He coughs weakly. "No shit." It's tossed over his shoulder without second thought. Then, he catches on to your presence; Hank's gaze falls onto your own; his eyes are still narrowed from sleep while he analyzes your state.

His frown grows longer. "Jesus, Connor, the fuck happened to your clothes..."

It's an oddity that this question is what has the pressure in your throat area mount tremendously. The lieutenant's face blurs and spins momentarily.

You catch yourself, of course. You explain to him the precise details of the event — your photographic memory seems to be more of a curse than a benefit now. You're unprepared to recollect the moment that the shot rang out and Hank wasn't agile enough to jump out of the bullet's way. He cursed because of _course_ he cursed, and then he slumped to the floor with all of his weight crashing mercilessly into the concrete.

Your hands are now tightly interwoven — Hanks' leftover blood makes them very, very sticky.

He attempts to laugh when you conclude how you'd carried his limp body to some backup officers — it comes out as more of a deep rumble from his gut than anything, but it's a stiffening noise to your ears.

"Hah," he croaks tiredly. "I haven't been shot this bad on a case in a while. Figures."

He utters the conclusion so casually that you don't fully process it.

You suppose you were meant to fill in the gap of silence with some dialogue, but when you don't offer any, Hank's gaze shifts curiously back over to you.

He looks like he wants to say something — but it's caught before it can be said. Instead, you receive orders. "Go get yourself cleaned up, Connor. Your clothes are makin' me sick just looking at 'em."

They're not; his vital have shown no signs of altering since he's roused, outside of a crinkling nostril or two on account of the coppery stench in the air — a reasonable hypothesis, given the amount of the stuff littered over you both.

Hank is stabilized for now, but it takes you a minute longer to leave.

-

You bring in coffee that one of the lieutenant's cop-buddies provided; when you enter the room, Hank has settled himself further onto the mound of pillows that he requested (read: forced) the nurses to help create for him.

He takes the caffeinated drink upon arrival — he should be drinking water instead, but your mouth is too tight to comment — and tips it in your direction as thanks.

"Fucking hospital food," he says after taking a long sip; he's still scratchy in the throat and it's unpleasant to hear; "There's a reason that comedians joke about 'em."

"Hospital food may not be notoriously appetizing, but it's still food," you reply — almost defensively, for some reason. "You need to be eating if you want to regain your strength."

"Yeah, yeah." Hank sluggishly finishes his coffee as you lecture him. "If I wanted someone to gripe about my eating habits, I'dve just called up my ex-wife."

He says this like it's a punchline to something that you don't find very funny.

You process his condition as you stew in quiet: his wound is clotted with old, brown blood; it's wrapped tightly with gauze, but some red still oozes from the cloth — it most likely needs to be rebandaged, or at least unwoven so it can receive some fresh air. His heart is beating rapidly — from caffeine, no less. His fingers are gnarled and chapped around the knuckles, from where he'd pounded furiously into the perpetrator's door.

Before he opened fire and you both ducked for cover and— 

"Hey, Connor." Hank snaps his fingers in front of your face and you regain focus. "You updating or something?"

You shake your head. "My apologies, Lieutenant. I suppose that..."

You suppose you should have assumed that the criminal was armed. You suppose you could have jumped in front of him, to reduce the impact. You suppose that you could have always died and come back later, even if you know that's not how it works anymore. CyberLife hasn't revived any late androids since the revolution — a play on mortality, you suppose.

But still.

Hank quirks a brow. "You suppose...?"

You try to practice an expression of amity. You say, "Nothing."

-

You decide that you were scared.

It's been five days and Hank has opting for a discharge like it's a case that needs to be settled in court. But the doctors have been, as he quoted, "holing [him] up in this god-forsaken hellhole' since he's older now, and organs don't seem to bounce back from a gunshot wound as easily as they would with a younger target.

This observation makes you reflect on how old Lieutenant Hank Anderson is. He comments on it himself (self-deprecatingly, of course, and you've been unsuccessful in breaking this habit) but you're prohibited to do the same, or else he seems offended. You're still unable to draw the line of what _Hank_ is allowed to insult and what you're not, but regardless you observe.

In the hospital bed that has melded to fit his body, the lieutenant looks older than you've even seen him. His face is pale and the lines of age are carved into his face like knife wounds; the veins are bright and purple and they suck fluids from tubes, curling around his skin like road maps.

This is Hank in his natural state. He doesn't let you see this often — usually he has to fall unconscious for you to have a peek — but it's still a harsh slap of reality every time. The fact of the matter is that _your_ age has never once shown on your face, but this human being — this thing made of meat akin to crumbling tinder — has had years to achieve this state of tiredness.

Hank made a joke that you didn't catch as you were lifting him up, with blood dripping down the corner of his mouth. Your right arm was draped somewhere under his armpit, since the abdomen was too raw and gorey to touch. Your left hand held his wrist. His head was slumped into the crook of your neck as you awkwardly walked to the ambulance; you'd yelled into his ears to hang on.

His eyes were glazed with pain, but lacked a heavy dose of panic. There wasn't really a lot of anxiety in him — his heartbeat was frantic but his state of shock seemed to have dissipated the moment you pulled him upward, and he fumbled to his feet and cracked a sour chuckle (more of a wet gurgle than anything, but you know how Hank laughs, and he was laughing). He seemed as clearheaded as he could've been for a man that was just shot; you'd spotted his survival rate decrease dramatically while he was in your hold.

He pressed a gun to your temple once. He said that humans can revive on the spot, but androids can't.

He dangled this in front of you like it was just a law of nature. Death appears to be a common phobia within humans — an inevitability — but Hank...

Hank plays with it like a toy.

Exertion exposes him to sleepless nights. He consumes alcohol with the hope that it may poison him. You've informed him countless times that greasy junk food (i.e. pizza, burgers, fries, etc.) are not a sufficient diet choice; whenever you have to force him to put vegetables on his plate it's like deaing with an overgrown child.

You have choices now; you're on equal playing grounds with your partner-slash-housemate. You can be irritated with Hank's lack of self-preservation without appearing to be sticking your nose in areas it doesn't belong in.

Humans are mortal, which is the key about them. They can die and their memory will never be reactivated again. You don't know where humans go when they expire — if they go anywhere at all — but it's not in this plane of existence anymore.

Seeing Hank bleed out onto your uniform, his pulse thumping like crazy as you rushed him to medical staff — it was harrowing. It was, in its own way, groundbreaking.

He laughed all the way into unconsciousness in the back of the ambulance.

You decide that you are angry.

-

"So, how's Sumo?" Hank asks you on day nine. His voice is less groggy now, since he doesn't need such a large dose of painkillers to stop wincing so much — the doctors promise a full recovery.

You should be pleased.

Instead, you watch Hank scrape the fruit bowl to the side when he thinks you're not looking. The television is on, upon his request, and he's been watching a playback of an old 2004 Detroit game, featuring an all-human team. It's an interesting dynamic to watch, you think.

"Sumo's fine," you tell him. "He whines a lot and prefers to sleep near your bed. I know he misses you."

Fondly, Hank scoffs. "Yeah, well. I'm just glad you've been feeding him. He's lasted longer without me, he'll be okay."

You want to pry, but rationality kicks in and you decide not to prod at any potential gaping wounds (no pun intended, of course; your number with DPD has done a number on your dry humor).

He fits into that stretcher so perfectly, even when he throws fits about the discomfort of it. You wonder how many times he's wound up in this position due to an irrational mistake on scene; the lack of lasting shock was telling enough. You wonder if Hank had halfheartedly griped at doctors as they plugged life back into him multiple times, before you were brought into the picture.

You wonder why he flirts with death like he does with the nurses.

(Which is, to say, often.)

-

Hank is assigned to a wheelchair the moment they let him out of bed; he's still bedridden, granted, but they let him move around the facility for limited sperses of time.

You follow Hank as he trails through the metallic hallways, gleaming and pristine. Occasionally you spot another android accompanying a wandering patient, or comforting a family in the waiting rooms. They have the same outfits as the rest of the medical staff, rather than sticking out like sore thumbs as it were previously; the only projection of their real identites (outside of quick facial scans) are the flickering LED lights colored cyan, or the occasional yellow.

They don't have to be here anymore, you realize. But, like yourself, they chose to stay.

The only reason you haven't been mistaken for staff, you suppose, is your uniform that indicates your status as the police department rather than the hospital. Otherwise, you think you'd be mistaken for an elderly caretaker.

(Of course, you don't voice this out loud.)

"Jesus," Hank sighs as you enter another section of the building; you're on the seventh floor, and the windows flanking your sides overlook a sunny afternoon in downtown Detroit. "If this is what old geezers like me end up doin' for fun, I think I'll take my chances on the force for a while longer."

It strikes an odd chord that you don't remember accounting for, somewhere in your makeshift gut. Nevertheless, you're silent. You'd already offered to push Hank around, but he took your proposal sourly and was even more adamant about trudging himself along. You still keep an eye out, just in case his arms become too sore and he needs assistance.

"I talked with Dr. Loften this morning," you apprise as you round a corner. "He said that you're making a steady recovery and that I should be able to bring you home in less than a week."

Hank doesn't offer more than a disconnected hum to the news. His heartbeat does not jump with optimism or pleasant surprise, instead continuing to beat at a slow and hefty pace. 

"Wonders of technology, huh," he mutters, but he doesn't lock eyes with your own, so you're not certain if you're meant to dignify this answer with a response.

The operating rooms are located ahead, as posted on a gleaming sign above you. Hank pointedly turns away from the area, and you follow suit. You wonder if he's thinking about his recent surgery, or about Cole's. Most likely the latter.

"Hey, Kathy." You spot a brunette nurse turn at Hank's salutation from the distance. She approaches you both immediately, appearing alarmed.

(Dr. Kathy Rogers, human, works in biochemical lab. No criminal record inserted into database.)

Hank just continues to wheel over to where she's located, casual as ever. The doctor's heart rate increases with worry. "Oh god, _Hank?_ Jesus, what'd you get yourself into now?"

"Lieutenant Anderson has suffered internal bleeding from a gunshot wound during a shootout," you assert, stepping in before Hank can provide his own (probably inaccurate) retelling of the events. Your posture is firm, with hands tied neatly behind your back; you hope you appear poised as you recount. "He's been hospitalized here for about a week following the incident, but he's making a steady recovery."

Unamused as ever, Hank gives you a lazy sweep in your direction to indicate conclusion. "Yeah, yeah, thanks for the recap, doc. Really appreciate it." His words are tainted with sarcasm, but you know that they're harmless. You find that you're still cross though, oddly.

Dr. Rogers, too, seems to only consider the event as a light skirmish. She's still concerned, judging by her gradually-reclining heartbeat, but her smile isn't tight around the edges, and her body temperature isn't heightened with anything more than natural apprehension. She leans down to give Hank an easy pat on the shoulder.

"What've we gotta do to make you stop comin' in and giving me a heart attack every few months?" she asks, and the Lieutenant _laughs._ You spot sparks of pain shooting through his opened veins, stiffening his body's posture, but he still keeps laughing.

"What, and ruin the excitement?" Hank replies, teasing in nature. He digresses into a raspy chuckle. "Let me have some fun while I still can. Shouldn't be long before something comes along and wipes me out."

"Optimistic as ever, I see," Dr. Rogers says, her eyes twinkling. _She's still not concerned._

"Eh, I've learned to stop smelling the roses years ago. I'll be optimistic on my deathbed."

You decide that this is all you want to hear.

"Lieutenant," you barge in without proper discretion. "I think we should head back to your room now."

Hank gives you an odd look out of the corner of his eye, but you're not in a state to properly dissect his emotions further. You feel like something hard and direct is pressing on your temple, your upper chest area, your stomach too. Your brows narrow and form a glare to shoot in the Lieutenant's direction.

He seems surprised at whatever status of expression your face upholds because he doesn't provide any argument to your claim; he bids a short farewell to his friend and departs with you.

You find yourself reaching out to maneuver Hank through busied hallways, but he slaps your hand away and says that he's perfectly capable of caring for himself.

You aren't so sure about that.

-

Your exhaustion on the matter is confirmed that night, when the hospital's endless noise has dulled into a soothing monotone of soft beeps.

Hank's been wheezing in bed for some time now — he mentioned a history of asthma in his youth, and this could be resurfacing the more he trashes his body health — and even though you don't have to, you purchased an inhaler that you keep in your back pocket. Just in case.

Since he'd been practicing mobility more, you want to make sure that his heart doesn't give up too soon in the process. Since Hank won't provide for himself, you're given this responsibility. It's a self-proclaimed responsibility, but it's yours regardless.

His whistling lungs calm down the deeper he falls into dreams, but you still do checkups on his heart rate every few minutes. You take his pulse and count the ticks in your head with every beat. You have the emergency line for the nurses close to your fingertips, accessible.

Just in case.

Then, you press a finger to the location of his heart, tucked under his bandaged chest.

It's still drumming, faintly; the more you focus on it, the more sound it picks up in your ears. You're able to replicate breathing in your own manufactured chest, but an organic system of lungs have always been admirable, compared to your own.

Hank's heartbeat delays sometimes, but it picks back up again with double frantic beats to reconcile the pauses.

What an awful thing to want to have deteriorate. This life that cannot be revived by manufacturers; memories that have no special cards to download them. You are alive, but you're not _alive,_ not like Hank is. And the more you see of him, the more you realize that Hank has dismissed the term 'alive' for a long while now.

To die is a frightening experience, and it's haunting to realize that this is _it._ No more Connors to replace you, no more fatal repairs that can be fixed with the press of a button. No more tests on your endurance on CyberLife. You now have to learn to live.

You want Hank to learn how to live, too. You don't think you could manage living while being alone simultaneously.

You're holding both Lieutenant Anderson's life and your own in your hands, you realize. And you don't want to do that anymore.

You don't want to. You don't _have_ too.

In his sleep, Hank stirs, eyes scrunching unpleasantly at something; a bad dream, perhaps. You recheck his pulse, and there's a flutter of relief that you experience to find that there is no major alteration to his condition.

You stare out at the vacant night sky, still holding Hank's heart between your fingertips.

-

The next time you bring Hank coffee from work after a long shift, you set it just outside of his reach. He gives you a sharp protest, but you're not listening.

You turn and stand up straighter than before as you stare down your partner. "I'm upset with you."

This catches his attention. Hank gives you one of his signature Looks, but you don't capitulate.

You continue: "I'm upset because you keep treating all of this like some sort of game. You were very close to dying at the scene, and you'd lost a significant amount of blood as I carried you to the emergency personnel."

There's a harsh pang in your central torso as you speak; you can feel the creases on your forehead lower as you imitate the anger you've seen Hank wear many times before. It fits into your current state easily and you wear it like a badge as you talk.

"Con— " Hank tries to stop you, but his voice sounds like it's being recorded from far away. Your anger is spilling out too quickly for you to catch it.

"Maybe you don't understand the risk you took when you stepped onto that turf without a bulletproof vest, but I do. Humans are fragile and they're not able to withstand the impact of an upgraded AK-47 as easily as androids. You weren't build for close combat with unfair advantages, but _I_ was."

Your hands are not passively behind your back anymore; they're clenched into fists at your sides — you want to punch something but you don't know what.

Your voice has pitched in volume, too, and it rings around the semi-empty hospital room:

"Why should I spend all this time caring for a man who doesn't even want to care about himself?"

...The pressure in your temple is released. But something sour — _hurt_ — still lingers in its place.

Hank doesn't say anything for a while. He crosses his arms (minding the wound, of course) and tucks his lips into his teeth — habits he performs when he's thinking about a hard case on the job. But, overall, his body functions are neutrally operating; he's not too stricken at your words — or, at least, not noticeably.

"Well," he finally says, "isn't that just the pot callin' the kettle black."

You don't understand; that's an old term often meant to symbolize the hypocritical nature an accuser has upon their— 

Ah. You see.

"Lieutenant— "

Hank holds up a hand. "Connor, listen. I know you get worked up over me — don't deny it, you're not exactly slick," you've opened your mouth and he abruptly silences you, then continues with a heavy tone: "Look, I get it. I'm not exactly a model of great health. But you gotta understand that it's not your job to fix it. I've been like this for a while now. You can't exactly teach an old dog new tricks."

You shake your head. "It's not my job," you confirm. "I was not designed as a permanent partner, only a temporary one. I don't form attachment as easily as a household android might, or a caretaker. _However,_ you lack of self-preservation should be a cause for concern."

"Oh, is it?" Hank says. "So now we're just gonna sweep all the dead Connors under the rug, then?"

"Hank—"

"You think it was a picnic to watch you get shot to death? To watch that weird blue blood splatter all over your damn uniform?" He's mad now; he rises as best he's able from the stretcher. "I've had a handful of unwanted interventions in my life, but this has _gotta_ be the most hypocritical one I've ever gotten."

You shake your head wildly; you decide that you're feeling stung by the lieutenant's word. "I just don't want you to _die,_ Lieutenant!"

This stops him. Vitals drop back to normal, residing like waves after a storm.

He pinches his nose with his fingers, letting out a long, deep sigh. You stay in place, feeling like you've been forced to expose something ugly and wrong about you for the world to critique.

Hank finally decides: "That was pretty petty of me." He looks back up to where you're still frozen in place. "I shouldn't have said that, Connor. You're not— you're not like that anymore, I get it."

Your head lowers, finding interest in your shuffling shoes. "You still meant that."

"I did," he admits, and you perk up to face him again. Hank's stature is still drooped into the cushions, probably from exhaustion, but his eyes are gentle. They remind you of Sumo's eyes when you give him belly rubs or back scratches. He gives you a half-shrug. "But, like I said, different time. Different you."

You still feel shaken; your shoulders are beginning to sag a little under the weight you're pressing into them. "I'm scared of dying," you say, tone hollow. You repeat: "I'm scare of _you_ dying, Lieutenant."

There's silence, followed by a breathy 'Jesus' that only comes from Hank, when he's exasperated or too overwhelmed for words. But, you are renowned for your patience, so you wait.

"Connor," he says eventually, and you listen: " _everybody's_ scared of dying. Whoever says they aren't are just kiddin' themselves. I get that it's probably all new to you, but that's just life. 'S what makes things enjoyable in the first place: the fact that nothing goes on forever. It makes you enjoy the time you still have with someo— some _thing_ a lil' bit more."

His eyes blur over, looking wistful; you know he's thinking of Cole.

"I just would prefer it if you didn't...decide to, as you've said, 'off yourself' too soon," you say; you keep your words shrewd, afraid of tripping up or saying something wrong, since Hank still seems a bit touchy after reflecting on his deceased son.

Hank gives another one of his long and drawling sighs — he uses this, you've discovered, to extend his time on answering something.

"I guess I'm just not used to people...worrying about me. Is all," he says softly. "Can't say I'm too fond of it. _But,_ I can't say that I hate it, either."

You give an inappropriate smile at his statement. "I guess that makes two of us, then."

He chuckles; it sounds genuine as it coarses through his body, and there's a swell of pride to know that you did that.

"Tell ya what: I'll do my best not to end up in this damn bed again, and you try not to end up in robo heaven, deal?"

You don't need to reassess your selections when you nod, perhaps a bit too eagerly, at the proposition. "Deal."

Hank goes quiet again, perhaps in thought. You assume that he's dipping back into sleep since the nurses gave him a sleep medication not so long ago, and it should be kicking in at any moment; but the uneasy breathing suggests otherwise. He's faced towards the heavy rain showers outside; fat droplets pelt the window and drip down from the seventh story you're situated on and fall onto the pavement below. A despondent cycle, but a soothing one. If you were to dream, you would only wish to settle in the resonances of gentle thunderstorms.

You don't necessarily _doze,_ but you enter a lethargic state that replicates a 'sleeping' mode. Your head is stuffed with a cottony mass as you lean forward in the chair that you've settled yourself into for the night. When you lean forward you manage to rest your head on the peak of Lieutenant Anderson's shoulder. It's a soft, meaty surface, but it somehow protrudes bones, like the muscles are draping off of his skin.

Your temple still finds a position that is adequate, and Hank says nothing as you listen to the raindrops.

-

Sumo barks and trips over both of your feet when you return home with additional company; Hank protests mildly when you have to help him onto the bed but are continuously halted by the dog's incessant wiggles and yips. The minute that Sumo is permitted to attack his eldest owner with kisses, the two become a mess of happy cries and laughter.

Lieutenant is on leave for now, so you work extra hours back at the station so Hank isn't overwhelmed with stacking folders the minute he returns to his desk — and he _will_ return to his desk, and that makes you smile when you peer over at the empty seat parallel to your own. You're happy because this is a temporary setup, rather than a permanent one.

Mortality is still lost on your kind — you're not meant for grief or the fear of death; you prototypes never were. You analyze crime and hunt down delinquents, and you either die solo or you take the criminal down with you. The third option of survival is a privilege.

But, you adapt. Hank still manages to make you...uneasy, yes, he makes you uneasy (scared??) when you spot age deteriorating his physical presence; the limp in his step from the wound does not go away for months, and the cane he's forced to use during that time gives you enough trouble that you really, really want to snap it in two.

You promise not to die for him, so you only get nipped by bullets and knives when you can avoid heavy injuries, and you stay behind armed men when you enter dangerous areas.

He promised not to die for you, too; he's easier on his limits, now. When he comments on the chronic pain of his joints there's a moment when he trades a grin with you that isn't overshadowed with something heavier. You learn to smile back when you can; you crave those moments, the _I am alive and so are you_ reassurances, because they're fleeting.

You are temporary. Hank is temporary. Sumo is temporary. Hell, Detroit is temporary too. But you sit at your desk and you get some work done while Hank sits at home recovering and (hopefully) eating the steamed vegetables you reheated for him. And Detroit awaits outdoors, with its chills slowly warming into a nipped springtime, and you will learn to appreciate all of it for its brevity.

**Author's Note:**

> [title](https://fluffynymph.tumblr.com/post/172622647328/dear-flight-without-motion-i-will-bend-you) || epitaphs ([i](http://heartcountry.tumblr.com/post/134088847052/i-did-not-suffer-from-love-i-suffered-with-it)) ([ii](https://fluffynymph.tumblr.com/post/170927035318/the-trick-is-you-were-never-meant-to-be-let))


End file.
